Anything But Normal (Jane Series 2)
by shirleypositive72
Summary: Just a little look at young, happy, impetuous Jane and Dean.


****A/N: Just a little look at a younger, happier, more impetuous time for Jane and Dean, before they were both so broken. A companion to That Picture, While They Dance on a Pin, and Light at the End of the Tunnel.****

"I am so ready to stop driving for a while," Dean says out of the blue, barely audible over Molly Hatchet playing on the radio,

"Did I hear that right?" I ask him, eyeing him with suspicion. "Might need to get the holy water and a silver knife."

"I didn't say I don't want to drive. Just that it'd be nice to stop and get a drink or something."

"Uh huh. You sure you aren't just sick to death of sitting in this car?" I punctuate what he will surely consider a ridiculous idea by resting my bare feet on the dash in front of me, legs outstretched. Just to see his reaction.

"Jane, do I need to leave you on the curb?"

I laugh right in his face, and he cracks that cheesy grin I've loved since I was nine. He would never leave me behind any more than I would leave him. But he isn't entirely joking and knocks my feet back down. Sighing through the end of a giggle, I have to tell him, "No money for a drink, babe. Unless you want to hustle. We have enough for a room and some food. We're tapped out."

"Here's a thought," he says with a little boy smile. "Why don't _I _drink and _you _hustle?"

"Sure, we could do that. You know, except for the fact that guys usually think I'm hustling something other than pool, and you have a tendency to beat them up for that."

"Yeah, there is that."

He sighs heavily, wrung out from the case we just finished. I watch him rub the back of his neck, tap his fingers, roll is left leg back and forth. He's fidgety; he _needs_a drink. My Dean is the strongest man you'll ever meet, but even strong men have weaknesses. One of his is the bottle. _A_bottle. _Any_bottle. It's no secret to either of us that the big "A" rides along wherever he goes. He doesn't acknowledge it with words or a lot of introspection, just feeds that particular beast when he can't ignore it completely. I hate it, but not enough to make it an issue on a daily basis. His dad and my uncle don't seem to pay it much attention. We don't exactly have a normal, apple pie life. We're anything but normal, in fact, and if getting himself in an alcohol haze allows him to sleep at night, then I'll let him sleep at night. Unless it gets way out of hand, I let it go. I certainly don't judge. He's only twenty-five, and it worries me, though. But I know it could be so much worse. We've known more than one Hunter who died with a needle in the arm or a pill bottle by the bed.

"Tell you what, let me run one table. Just one. We'll go drink somewhere else when I'm done, if we have to. Okay?"

"You gonna wear what you have on?" he asks hopefully.

"No, dumbass. Baggy jeans and a hoodie? I thought you wanted to make money?"

"Fine. One table in your hooker clothes, Jay. Got it? I am too tired to beat ass tonight," he says wearily.

"One table, enough money to get buzzed. I don't think we'll get enough money to get you drunk." I don't fight about it, but I guess I don't hide my awareness. He knows what I'm doing and cuts his eyes at me. Our obligatory non-conversation about his alcoholism is over. I don't want to spend the last little bit of time I have with him dealing with this.

I only have another day and a half with him before fall semester starts. Augustana College is small, expensive, and religious. A college fund started by my parents when I was born makes it possible for me to go. Dean loves it when he's away on a case with his dad, or on his own like he has been recently. He and Uncle Bobby both feel that even though I'm right in Sioux Falls, if I'm going to spend so much time during the day away from them, then the abundance of symbols of protection can't be a bad thing. But when he's home, he hates the place. I can't just blow it off to get naked with him or jump into case with both feet.

I like it for the same reasons they do. I love the Anthropology department. And I kind of like not being able to drop everything on command. Since coming to Bobby's so long ago, monsters have ruled the schedule. Since being with Dean became my reality rather than my fantasy, he has called the shots. It's his nature. Everyone learned a lesson when Sammy left, though, so when my turn came, things were different. Right now my education, my shot at relative normalcy, is at the top of everyone's list. And I'm selfishly okay with that.

But on nights like tonight, I am grateful for summer break, when I can take my place in the passenger seat. It hasn't always been my place, but Sammy left it open.

He pulls up in front a roadside bar, all blinking neon signs and fifteen year old trucks, and parks his Baby as far away from the one street light as he can. We're hidden behind a cluster of trees growing in a strip of grass encroaching upon the gravel parking lot. Under no circumstances does he want my strip number to be seen. He turns to me and grimaces, perfecting Sam's bitchface without even trying. Dean never likes it when I put on my hooker clothes. Not in public, anyway.

"Get that ass in the backseat and change before I change my mind."

"Dean, we don't have to do this, babe. Let's just get a cheap room and head home tomorrow," I say, giving him an out if he is really not into it.

"Change your damn clothes, Jay," he snaps. He needs the drink.

Without another word, I climb over the seat instead of getting out of, then back into, the car. Just to piss him off. Jonesing for a whiskey or not, I don't like it when he snaps at me for no reason. Flipping around to sit on the seat, I stare at him in the rearview. He stares back, those green eyes so damn stubborn. He's deciding what kind of night it's going to be.

"I won't be a dick anymore tonight," he tells me. I raise an eyebrow. "Not to you, anyway," he smirks.

And that's my apology. I'll take it. I smile and take off my hoodie. Now he smiles. It'll be a good night.

He watches closely as the baggy jeans, barefeet, and hoodie are replaced by battered cowboy boots, a short denim skirt, and a black, lacy tank top. Not exactly hooker clothes by most normal people's definition, but Dean is anything but normal. He has hated this outfit since the first time he saw me wearing it.

I was fifteen. Dean was twenty and still pretending I was like a sister to him, a lie he would tell himself for three more years. They'd been gone with Uncle John for almost five months and surprised me by picking me up from the last day of school. Sammy could give a shit what I was wearing, and he cracked a huge grin when I spotted the Impala and started running toward them. Dean's face, as he leaned against the fender waiting for me, fell and froze in shock.

"The hell are you wearing?" Not the greeting I was expecting.

"What do you mean? It's June, Dean. It's hot." My friends, who'd caught up with me, whispered that he was hot, too, but I blocked them out. I was fighting with Dean right then. I didn't have time to fight with them.

"Put some fucking clothes on, Janie. Damn. You look like a hooker."

"Welcome home, Dean." And thus the hooker clothes were christened.

Crawling out of the backseat in this bar parking lot, I walk around the car headed toward the entrance with a little extra sway in my hips. Before I even make it out of the glow from the headlights, he has me in his arms. Walking me back to the car, he sits me on the hood and promptly fills the space between my knees.

"Damn, Janie, put some clothes on. Or take them off. Your choice," he murmurs against my neck. He remembers that day as well as I do. Sister, my ass.

"You're in a much better mood now, huh," I say, smiling until he runs his hands up my thighs and under my skirt. Then I sigh. I love the feel of his rough hands .

"You are just so hot, I can't resist. And, well," he begins, sliding his lips up my neck to the back of my ear, hands winding around to grasp my ass, "I just want you to have me all over you when you walk in there. No one else will see it, but you'll know." He leans me back, only enough to pull my legs around his waist. "You'll know because you'll still feel me, Jay, still smell me, everywhere on your skin."

"Oh, God," I breathe.

"You can call me Dean." And with that last bit of smartass, he pulls me completely off the car and sets me on my feet. "So, figured out how you're gonna play the table?" He just goes on about hustling pool like he didn't just get me so hot that I'm sweating. Dean plays dirty.

"Yeah," I croak, then clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm going to tell them straight up that I'm a great player. They won't believe me, and they'll lose a lot of money."

"Think it'll work? he asks, genuinely curious.

"Usually does." The look he gives me, the one that says _explain_, prompts me to keep going. "Dean, how do you think I can afford to go to school full time without a job and still buy all the shit I buy? New shoes cost money, babe."

"You hustle?"

"Sometimes pool, sometimes poker. Men see me as a sweet little thing. No one takes me seriously. Then they're all so embarrassed that they lost their money that they walk away."

"Jane," he groans, running his hand down his face.

"Hey, it's a lot less than what you guys do. Calm down. I've been taught well, remember?"

"Shit," he says, then does this pissed off growling thing. He can't argue; he's one of the people who made sure I could do these things.

We walk into the bar and all the eyes close enough to see are on us. Frankly, I'm not wearing a lot of clothes, and Dean is_Dean_. We draw attention. No one cards me, but I'd be fine if they did. I know some great forgers and my ID is flawless. After the one drink together we plan on paying for out of own pockets, he is visibly more at ease. He springs for one more beer for himself as I make my way to an open pool table. Throughout the time I spend away from his side, he gives the appearance of keen interest at first, then anger, then complete disregard for me and what I'm doing. But they don't know him like I do. He sees every move. Every shot, every step, every guy that gets too close, every extra low bend to draw attention away from the felt. He sees it all, and he knows I know it.

I warn the guys who play me; I tell them right up front. But they're a little distracted by the giggles, and the mild flirting, and the way I line up my shots to make it necessary to bend way over. They don't notice at first that I sink everything I go for, or that every time I bend, it's with my ass where the sullen, watchful dude at the bar can see. They don't notice the practiced ease, or the way the cue is like an extension of myself. They do notice when I walk away with eighty bucks of their money. But what can they do? It will only make the shame of being beaten by a chick worse if they whine about it.

Sauntering over to Dean, I catch the relieved look on his face. He is proud of how well I handle myself, had a huge hand in preparing me to do just what I did, but he doesn't like it. He doesn't see me as incapable, or as a child. He just sees me as his. And no matter how Neanderthal that may seem, I like it. Suppose that's a good thing, because he's not going to change. He can keep a watchful eye, as long as he doesn't stand it the way.

"Eighty bucks, babe. Not back for such quick work. Now let's drink," I grin. He doesn't have any more problem spending money that I earned than I have spending the money he earns.

Clinking our shot glasses, he toasts, "To the best little hustler in the joint. You are worth so much more than eighty bucks, especially in your hooker clothes."

I down the shot then laugh, "You are not normal, Dean."

"Then aren't you lucky?"

An hour later, I've nursed a beer after the two shots I had. Dean has had decidedly more to drink. We're both level, though I insist on driving. I slip in the car behind the wheel and feel the thrill that comes from doing something I shouldn't. Every time I drive her I feel this way. It's like being offered a free bite of forbidden fruit.

"Did you notice a motel anywhere on the way?"

The only answer I get is a hand on the back of my head pulling me toward him. I know I shouldn't think this way, I know it makes me the worst kind of enabler, but I love the taste of whiskey on his tongue. So warm, so spicy, so Dean. Our very first kiss on my eighteenth birthday, he tasted like whiskey. He later admitted that he'd had to have a couple to get up the courage to do it. Two years later, and the taste still takes me back to the thrill of that much anticipated moment. He was all I'd ever wanted. He still is.

He deepens the kiss for a teasing moment, then pulls his mouth away to say, "Do you know how sexy you are in this?" He runs one finger, just one, along the lace neckline of the black tank, strap to strap. He barely touches my skin, dragging his fingertip ever so lightly over the swell of my breasts, then dips just underneath for the return trip.

"Tell me," I demand, loving what his voice does to me almost as much as his hands.

He pulls me over until I straddle his lap and replaces his finger with his lips. He breathes the words against my skin. "Seeing you in complete control. Watching you turn those guys into leering assholes, easy marks, shaking your ass at me the whole time . . . Babe, I almost blew the whole thing for you. So close to just dragging you out of there and into this car." His tongue joins his lips as his hands move from my hips up my stomach to cup me roughly.

"I'm here now. What are you gonna do with me?"

"You want me to tell you? Or show you?"

"Both," I demand, thrusting my hands into his short, artfully spiked hair, arching into him, kissing him aggressively. He likes that. The groan deep in his throat is proof.

"I love it when you get all bossy, Jay," he growls.

"Good."

"I'm not gonna take your clothes off, Jay."

"You're not," I ask, wiggling with excitement.

"No," he says, eyes looking at me briefly through his lashes before focusing on my chest. Pulling the front of my top down just enough to expose my nipples, he says with a devilish lilt, "No, I'm gonna leave it all on. I know what's under there. I know every inch of your skin, every curve, every dip. I don't need to see it to know what to do for you."

He dips his head and takes one nipple between his lips, his fingers rolling the other. I drop my head back in pleasure, giving him more room. His hair brushes under my chin and just the soft feel of him as his teeth bite, bringing only the hint of pain, is sensory overload. God, he has always known what to do for me. To me. Always. He's taught me to enjoy the pain with the pleasure. Taught me to find as much satisfaction in giving as getting, as he does. Taught me what I don't like, and what he doesn't like, and to be bold in the discovering. He's taught me that I really, really like sex. I don't think that was an entirely unselfish lesson on his part.

"I don't need to take your shirt off to know your belly is quivering, or your back is arching, or your breathing is picking up."

"Oh, Dean." He's so right.

His lips move to my neck, right at that spot where it meets my shoulder, and his hands lower so damn slowly. I feel his every movement, his hands never leave my body. He reaches my hips, keeps going until he reaches my ass and slips the tips of his fingers under the hem of the denim skirt.

"I don't need to take your skirt off to know your thighs are strong enough to hold you on top of me no matter what I do, to know your ass is tight ready to be smacked," he says as he pulls back and does just that. I let out a short surprised sound that makes him smile against my skin. "I don't have to see to know you're squirming, ready for me. I can feel you, Jay. I don't have to see."

"Oh, shit," is the most coherent thought left to me. Everything else is just Dean. Want him, need him, have him. I pull his mouth back to mine and kiss him with everything in me. "Need you."

"You got me," he says against my lips, bites them, licks them. Pulls my panties down my thighs. I back off him a fraction while he pulls the right side of my panties off my leg. He looks down and smiles. "The Batman ones. Did you plan this?"

"I hoped," I replied with a grin as I unbutton and unzip his jeans. He scrunches my skirt up while I tug his jeans down just enough for him to get free.

"What'd you hope for?" he smirks.

"This."

I sink onto him, ready for him, so wet already it would be embarrassing to a normal girl. Slowly though; he's so big. He'd like to think I have nothing to compare him to. He never watches porn with me around, and therefore believes I have never seen it. Where the hell does he think I learned half the shit I do? But he told me he's big; of course, he did. So he thinks I've just taken his word for it. No, I researched. He's big.

"Oh, Jay, God," he moans as I slide downward. His hands rest on my thighs, loosely, unlike his usual attitude. "It's all you, babe." This makes me pause for a second. "What's wrong?" he asks, raising his eyes to look at me. Not far, though. Even perched atop him like I am, he's still taller.

"Nothing wrong. It's just . . . you're always in charge, Dean."

He takes my face in his hands, makes sure I'm looking at him. "Only because you let me be. You understand that, right?"

And I do. He's not a bully, never has been, I've never thought he was. He always listens to me, takes what I have to say seriously. In the Hunting part of our lives, he's in charge. He has to be. I guess I've just let that spill over into the rest of it. I smile.

"Yeah, I understand."

"Run me like you ran that table, Jay. That shit was hot."

I bite his bottom lip like he likes to bite mine, and I get a groan from somewhere deep. I move again, picking up pace because it's what I need right now. Leaning back, because I know he likes to look, I brace myself on the dash behind me. Sweating, moaning, swearing, we make up our own language for the moment. He starts to reach for me, then seems to remember I'm in charge tonight and stills his hand. I'm so in tune with every move, every twitch of his body, inside me and around me and under me, I know immediately he acted in instinct.

So I move his hand for him. He loves to watch our bodies joining. But he especially loves to feel me, coax me into orgasm, get me there, make sure I get mine. Every time. I'm never going to complain.

"Oh, Dean, Dean," I chant and he knows I'm close. Finally deciding to make a call on his own, he pulls me close to his body. He knows I love the feel of him surrounding me. Despite his plan to let me tell him what I want, he can't stop himself from giving me exactly what he knows I need. He never can.

I tumble down the rabbit hole, the only way I can describe the feeling he's brought me. I feel like a ragdoll, spent and rubbery, so he takes over. He wraps his arms around me and snaps into me, chasing his own release. He finds it a minute later.

"Fuck, Jay. So good," he pants. "Tired now."

"You're tired? What about me? I'm not a teenager anymore, you know."

"Yeah, hell, my girl's an old lady of twenty," he smiles and smooths the hair back from where it's fallen in my face.

"Let's go get a room, babe."

"Fix your hooker clothes," he says, pointing playfully but meaning it. "We've still got some of that extra cash left. We'll stop and get a six pack and find a bed. Okay?"

He fixes his jeans, and I slide back over behind the wheel. I coach my expression.

"Okay."

****A/N: Even in their happiest, most playful times, there is a dark cloud. Welcome to Supernatural. I hadn't planned on writing this - it was a surprise even to me. Reviews are greatly appreciated.****


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